On the list of things that I am most grateful for, being alive is right up there at the top. As you may recall, I had the splendid opportunity of contemplating my continued habitation of our wondrously flawed, yet charming little planet during a
rip board excursion in the summer of 2005. One would assume that with the profound disregard with which I flung myself into that swirling torrent of a river, I would not have previously glimpsed the far side of my mortality in pursuits best left to the more athletic of the species. Of course, one would be stunningly wrong.
In the latter half of the final decade of the second millennium (1998-ish), I was persuaded by my good friend Steve to accompany him on a skiing trip to Cooper. No, I don't mean Copper; Cooper is a resort up the road from Leadville on the other side of the continental divide. Being a lifelong flatlander, I had no idea how to dress for skiing. Also being freshly divorced a few years prior, I was what one might call "fiscally challenged". I had neither the funds, nor the inclination to drop big bucks on "ski wear". Steve, having lived in Colorado for most of his life, suggested what was, to my bucolic sensibilities, a radically new concept: layering.
Where I came from, layering was something we did to cakes. I was thinking, "Okay; I'm good with the frosting, but who are we going to put on top of me?" After exhaling a pity-filled sigh of disbelief, Steve explained that the idea was to wear several layers of clothing that could be shed and reapplied as often as weather and bodily functions demanded.
My initial thought, disregarding the warmth of the Colorado sunshine, was that higher altitude equaled colder weather. Accordingly, I figured at least four layers were in order. Starting from the bottom, I was assembled thusly: low rise bikini briefs (loose elastic, slightly holey, impressively stained), long winter underwear, jeans, sweats, and on top, 1980's vintage nylon running pants. The last layer, though ironic as I'm quite sure I did not run in the eighties, was meant to somehow keep out moisture while also making the stylish statement that I had never done this before. Up top, I was sporting a short sleeve t-shirt, a long sleeve t-shirt, a sweatshirt, and my warmest winter coat. That was topped off with a scarf, stocking cap, and gloves. I looked like some tragically misplaced and miserable Bedouin, not unlike Randy Parker, the little brother in "A Christmas Story". Obviously, getting lucky at the lodge was not going to an issue I would have to deal with.
Foregoing real instruction, I instead had Steve give me some pointers. You know; the whole French fries and pizza thing, put weight on your right big toe to turn left, that sort of thing. This, as it turns out, was about as wise as Obi Wan trying to train Anakin on his own, with similar results; the potential deaths of innocents and a great perversion of the laws of nature.
Soon we were at the resort. I'd like to be able to recommend Cooper and give a very detailed description of all the runs, but as I only saw was the bunny slope, I must digress. After renting the boots to go along with the gear borrowed from Steve and receiving a few more last minute pointers, it was off to the lift. The lift at the bunny slope was a T-bar lift. This meant that there were bars in the shape of an inverted "T" on a track, in a loop that went between the bottom and the top of the hill. The operator would stop the lift, and two skiers at a time would lean back against the horizontal part of the "T" while holding on to the vertical part. The operator would then start the lift back up, and skiers were thus dragged up the hill. As someone who is not intuitively athletic, I required a great deal of concentrated effort to maintain constant back pressure against the lift. The second I would allow this pressure to lapse, I would be down like Chevy Chase in a Gerald Ford skit.
After finally mastering the lift, it was time to traverse down the slope. I'm sure the slope had a grade of only fifteen to twenty degrees, but to the terrified first-timer, it seemed like a lot more. Let me just say that steering, in theory, is much simpler than steering in practice. Eventually, though, I got the hang of it. There is, however, a dubious sort of pride that comes with being the slowest patron on the bunny slope. As I was making my delicately slow turns amidst heady, straight-downhill rushes that maxed out somewhere in the neighborhood of two miles an hour, the more accomplished skiers would fly by me in a blur (note: when skiing at the blinding speeds I was capable of, anything greater than a walking pace would constitute a blur).
One particularly instance was too close for comfort. A skier went flying by me at what seemed like forty miles per hour. Remembering that congressman Bono had recently been dispatched to his dirt nap by careening into a stationary object, and that I, for all intents and purposes, constituted a stationary object, I was suddenly filled with fear of death and righteous indignation. I cursed after this careless thrill seeker thusly:
"Why don't you go to the double diamond, or black diamond, or black mamba run, or whatever they call it, you maniac. This run is for beginners, gosh darn it! What?! Oh, yeah?! Well, I'll kick your butt, that's what! I know you're only eleven, but don't think I can't do it. Catch you first?! I don't have to catch you! You'll have to go to the bathroom sometime today, and when you do, your butt is mine! Wait a second; that didn't come out quite right. Never mind; just remember, I've got my eyes on you." That last line was said with my fingers in the traditional "peace" or "victory" sign formation, with the ends of my fingers pointing alternately at my eyes and his abnormally nimble, skiing optimal, eleven year old physique. It was meant to be menacing in an authoritative adult manner, but the lad's insolent laughter rendered my vengeful threat moot.
Other than wounded pride, my first skiing adventure was relatively painless. The same cannot be said for my first venture into snow boarding and, as it turns out, my last. To allow my more accomplished friend to try to teach me to ski was one thing. To allow him and myself to intuitively divine snow boarding skills sans instruction, was quite another. Steve figured it out somewhat, as he had more honed skiing skills. I was not quite as lucky. The great thing about skis is that they come of when you fall. Generally they will not go far, as once one is separated from the bindings, little metal thingies (sorry about the technical jargon) will protrude past the well waxed bottoms of the skis to arrest their flight. At least that's how I remember it. Snow boards, on the other hand have no such features as that would harsh the thrill seeking buzz. Or, perhaps, it is not feasible with those particular bindings. At any rate, I was shocked to learn that the board would stay attached to me when I crashed. Apparently, I would have two choices for crashing: forward or backward. I decided when I was told that wrist injuries were common, I would outwit the gods of bodily injury by tucking my arms when face-planting. Way bad idea. Let's just say trying to sneeze with bruised ribs really sucks all the joy out of life: "Ach-owwww!" After falling on our backsides for the fiftieth times, our day ended before noon. There's not been a butt that sore since the last time Clay Aiken was in San Diego during shore leave.
I was thinking that brushes with death would have ended when we left the slope; au contraire. Driving back to Aurora, we encountered some wet, slushy road. In and of itself, this was not disturbing. However, the eighteen-wheeler bearing down on us at frightening speed, and very possibly out of control, was. I was blissfully unaware of this fact until Steve very matter-of-factly said, "We're going to die."
"Come again?"
"There's a truck behind us coming fast. Look!" Steve is punching the accelerator with this announcement, looking for egress routes.
"I don't want to look!" I say, looking.
"I don't want to be the only one seeing it coming. LOOK!!" he says, swerving to the other lane in front of the car we have just passed, extricating us from a tee time with St. Peter by the narrowest of margins.
"Damn you for making me look," I say with a sheepish grin as we look at each other, shocked to still be amongst the breathing. I don't know if it was the twenty pounds of clothes, or the glimpse of my own mortality, but I was drenched in sweat. Not just any sweat. This is a sweat my college room mate used to call "belly smelts". It smells kind of like unrefrigerated, next day, left over, keg party pizza.
"Wow," I thought. Some pizza would go down good right now. "Dude; pull over. Let's get some lunch." And speaking of funky smells, on the bright side, I no longer had to take a crap.